The Spanish Brothers

XXIX A Friend at Court

“I have a soul and body that exact
A comfortable care in many ways.”

—R. Browning

Don Juan’s peril was extreme. Well known as he was to many of the imprisoned Lutherans, it seemed a desperate chance that, amongst the numerous confessions wrung from them, no mention of his name should occur. He knew himself deeply implicated in the crime for which they were suffering—the one unpardonable crime in the eyes of Rome. Moreover, unlike his brother, whose temperament would have led him to avoid danger by every lawful means, he was by nature brave even to rashness, and bold even to recklessness. It was his custom to wear his heart on his lips; and though of late stern necessity had taught him to conceal what he thought, it was neither his inclination nor his habit to disguise what he felt. Probably, not even his desire to aid Carlos would have prevented his compromising himself by some rash word or deed, had not the soft hand of Doña Beatriz, strong in its weakness, held him back from destruction. Not for one instant could he forget her terrible vow. With this for ever before his eyes, it is little marvel if he was willing to do anything, to bear anything—ay, almost to feign anything—rather than involve her he loved in a fate inconceivably horrible.

And—alas for the brave, honest-hearted, truthful Don Juan Alvarez!—it was often necessary to feign. If he meant to remain in Seville, and to avoid the dungeons of the Inquisition, he must obviate—or remove—suspicion by protesting, both by word and action, his devotion to the Catholic Church, and his hatred of heresy.

Could he stoop to this? Gradually, and more and more, as each day’s emergency made it more and more necessary, he did stoop to it. He told himself it was all for his brother’s sake. And though such a line of conduct was intensely repugnant to his character, it was not contrary to his principles. To conceal an opinion is one thing, to deny a friend quite another. And while Carlos had found a Friend, Juan had only embraced an opinion.

He himself would have said that he had found Truth—had devoted himself to the cause of Freedom. But where were truth and freedom now, with all the bright anticipations of their ultimate triumph which he had been wont to indulge? As far as his native land was concerned (and it must be owned that his mental eye scarcely reached beyond “the Spains”), a single day had blotted out his glowing visions for ever. Almost at the same moment, and as if by some secret preconcerted signal, the leading Protestants in Seville, in Valladolid, all over the kingdom, had been arrested and thrown into prison. Swiftly, silently, with the utmost order and regularity, had the whole thing been accomplished. Every name that Juan had heard Carlos mention with admiration and sympathy was now the name of a helpless captive. The Reformed Church of Spain existed no longer, or existed only in dungeons.

In what quarter the storm had first arisen, that burst so suddenly upon the community of the faithful, Don Juan never knew. It is probable the Holy Office had long been silently watching its prey, waiting for the moment of action to arrive. In Seville, it is said, a spy had been set upon some of Losada’s congregation, who revealed their meeting to the Inquisitors. While in Valladolid, the foul treachery of the wife of one of the Protestants furnished the Holy Office with the means of bringing her husband and his friends to the stake.

Don Juan, whose young heart had lately beat so high with hope, now bowed his head in despair. And despairing of freedom, he lost his confidence in truth also. In opinion he was still a decided Lutheran. He accepted every doctrine of the Reformed as against the Roman Catholic creed. But the hold he once had upon these doctrines as living realities was slackened. He did not doubt that justification by faith was a scriptural dogma, but he did not think it necessary to die for it. Compared with the tremendous interest of the fate of Carlos and the peril of Beatriz, and amidst his desperate struggles to aid the one and shield the other, doctrinal questions grew pale and faint to him.

Nor had he yet learned to throw himself, in utter weakness, upon a strength greater than his own, and a love that knows no limits. He did not feel his weakness: he felt strong, in the strength of a brave heart struggling against cruel wrong; strong to resist, and, if it might be, to conquer his fate.

At first he cherished a hope that his brother was not actually in the secret dungeons of the Inquisition. For so great was the number of the captives, that the public gaols of the city and the convent prisons were full of them; and some had to be lodged even in private houses. As Carlos had been one of the last arrested, there seemed reason to suppose that he might be amongst those thus accommodated; in which case it would be much easier both to communicate with him, and to alleviate his fate, than if he were within the gloomy walls of the Triana; there might be, moreover, the possibility of forming some plan for his deliverance.

But Juan’s diligent and persevering search resulted at last in the conviction that his brother was in the “Santa Casa” itself. This conviction sent a chill to his heart. He shuddered to think of his present suffering, whilst he feared the worst for the future, supposing that the Inquisitors would take care to lodge in their own especial fortress those whom they esteemed the most heinous transgressors.

He engaged a lodging in the Triana suburb, which the river, spanned by a bridge of boats, separated from the city. There were several reasons for this choice of residence; but by far the greatest was, that those who lingered beneath the walls of the grim old castle could sometimes see, behind its grated windows, spectral faces raised to catch the few scanty gleams of daylight which fell to their lot. Long weary hours did Juan watch there, hoping to recognize the face he loved. But always in vain.

When he went into the city, it was sometimes for other purposes than to visit Doña Beatriz. It was as often to seek the precincts of the magnificent Cathedral, and to pace up and down that terrace whose massive truncated pillars, raised when the Romans founded a heathen temple on the spot, had stood throughout the long ages of Moslem domination. Now the place was consecrated to Christian worship, and yet it was put to no hallowed use. Rich merchants, in many a varying garb, that told of different nations, trod the stately colonnade, and bought and sold and made bargains there. For in those days (strange as seems to us the irreverence of the so-called “ages of faith”) that terrace was the royal exchange of Seville, then a mercantile city of great importance. Don Juan Alvarez diligently resorted thither, and held many a close and earnest conversation with a keen-eyed, hawk-nosed Jew, whom he met there.

Isaac Osorio, or more properly, Isaac ben Osorio, was a notorious money-lender, who had often “obliged” Don Manuel’s sons, not unfairly requiring heavy interest to counter-balance the hazardous nature of his investments. Callings branded as unlawful are apt to prove particularly gainful. The Jew was willing to “oblige” Don Juan also, upon certain conditions. He was not by any means ignorant of the purpose for which his money was needed. Of course he was himself a Christian in name, for none other would have been permitted to live upon Spanish ground. But by what wrongs, tortures, agonies worse than death, he and those like him had been forced to accept Christian baptism, will never be known until Christ comes again to judge the false Church that has slandered him. Will it be nothing in his sight that millions of the souls for whom he died have been driven to hate his Name—that Name so unutterably precious?

Osorio derived grim satisfaction from the thought that the Christians were now imprisoning, torturing, burning each other. It reminded him of the grand old days in his people’s history, when the Lord of hosts was wont to stretch forth his mighty arm and trouble the armies of the aliens, turning every man’s hand against his brother. Let the Gentiles bite and devour one another, the child of Abraham could look upon their quarrels with calm indifference. But if he had any sympathy, it was for the weaker side. He was rather disposed to help a Christian youth who was trying to save his brother from the same cruel fangs in which so many sons of Israel had writhed and struggled. Don Juan, therefore, found him accommodating, and even lenient. From time to time he advanced to him considerable sums, first upon the jewels he brought with him from Nuera, and then, alas! upon his patrimony itself.

Not without a keen pang did Juan thus mortgage the inheritance of his fathers. But he began to realize the bitter truth that a flight from Spain, and a new career in some foreign land, would eventually be the only course open to him—if indeed he escaped with life.

Nor would the armies of Spain henceforth be more free to him than her soil. Fortunately, the necessity for rejoining his regiment had not arisen. For the brief war in which he served was over now; and as the promised captaincy had not yet been assigned to him, he was at liberty for the present to remain at home.

He largely bribed the head-gaoler of the inquisitorial prison, besides supplying him liberally with necessaries and comforts for his brother’s use. Caspar Benevidio bore the worst of characters, both for cruelty and avarice; still, Juan had no resource but to trust implicitly to his honour, in the hope that at least some portion of what he gave would be allowed to reach the prisoner. But not a single gleam of information about him could be gained from Benevidio, who, like all other servants of the Inquisition, was bound by a solemn oath to reveal nothing that passed within its walls.

He also bribed some of the attendants and satellites of the all-powerful Inquisitor, Munebrãga. It was his desire to obtain a personal interview with the great man himself, that he might have the opportunity of trying the intercession of Don Dinero, to whose advances he was known to be not altogether obdurate.

For the purpose of soliciting an audience, he repaired one evening to the splendid gardens belonging to the Triana, to await the Inquisitor, who was expected shortly to return from a sail for pleasure on the Guadalquivir. He was sick at heart of the gorgeous tropical plants that surrounded him, of the myrtle-blossoms that were showered on his path; of all that told of the hateful pomp and luxury in which the persecutor lived, while his victims pined unpitied in loathsome dungeons. Yet neither by word, look, nor sign dared he betray the rage that was gnawing his heart.

At length the shouts of the populace, who thronged the river’s side, announced the approach of their idol; for such Munebrãga was for the time. Clad in costly silks and jewels, and surrounded by a brilliant little court, composed both of churchmen and laymen, the “Lord Inquisitor” stepped from his splendid purple-decked barge. Don Juan threw himself in his way, and modestly requested an audience. His bearing, though perfectly respectful, was certainly less obsequious than that to which Munebrãga had been accustomed of late. So the minister of the Holy Office turned from him haughtily, though, as Juan bitterly thought, “his father would have been proud to hold the stirrup for mine.” “This is no fitting time to talk of business, señor,” he said. “We are weary to-night, and need repose.”

At that moment a Franciscan friar advanced from the group, and with his lowest bow and most reverent manner approached the Inquisitor. “With the gracious permission of my very good lord, I shall address myself to the caballero, and report his errand to your sanctity. I have the honour of some acquaintance with his Excellency’s noble family.”

“As you please, Fray,” said the voice accustomed to speak the terrible words that doomed to the rack and the pulley, though no one would have suspected this from the bland, careless good-nature of its tones. “But see that you tarry not so as to lose your supper. Howbeit, there is little need to caution you, or any other son of St. Francis, against undue neglecting of the body.”

The son of St. Francis made no answer, either because it was not worth while, or because those who take the crumbs from the rich man’s table must ofttimes take his taunts therewith. He disengaged himself from the group, and turned towards Juan a broad, good-humoured, not unintelligent face, which his former pupil recognized immediately.

“Fray Sebastian Gomez!” he exclaimed in astonishment

“And very much at the service of my noble Señor Don Juan. Will your Excellency deign to bear me company for a little time? In yonder walk there are some rare flowers of rich colouring, which it were worth your while to observe.”

They turned into the path he indicated, while the Lord Inquisitor’s silken train swept towards that half of the Triana where godless luxury bore sway; the other half being consecrated to the twin demon, cruelty.

“Will it please your worship to look at these Indian pinks?” said the friar. “You will not see that flower elsewhere in all the Spains, save in the royal gardens. His Imperial Majesty brought it first from Tunis.”

Juan all but cursed the innocent flowers; but recollected in time that God made them, though they belonged to Gonzales de Munebrãga. “In Heaven’s name, what brings you here, Fray Sebastian?” he interrupted impatiently. “I thought to see only the black cowls of St. Dominic about the—the minister of the Holy Office.”

“A little more softly, may I implore of your Excellency? Yonder casement is open.—Pues,[#] señor, I am here in the capacity of a guest. Nothing more.”

[#] Well, or well thou.

“Every man to his taste,” said Juan, drily, as with a heedless foot he kicked off the beautiful scarlet flower of a rare cactus.

“Have a care, señor and your Excellency; my lord is very proud of his cactus flowers.”

“Then come with me to some spot of God’s free earth where we can talk together, out of sight of him and his possessions.”

“Nay, rest content, señor; and untire yourself in this fair arbour overlooking the river.”

“At least, God made the river,” said Juan, flinging himself, with a sigh of irritation and impatience, on the cushioned seat of the summer-house.

Fray Sebastian seated himself also. “My lord,” he began to explain, “has received me with all courtesy, and is good enough to desire my continual attendance. The fact is, señor, his reverence is a man of literary taste.”

Juan allowed himself the solace of a quiet sneer. “Oh, is he? Very creditable to him, no doubt.”

“Especially he is a great lover of the divine art of poesy.”

No genuine love of the gentle art, whose great lesson is sympathy, did or could soften the Inquisitor’s hard heart. Nor, had his wealth been doubled, could he have hired one real poet to sing his praise in strains worthy the ear of posterity. In an atmosphere so cold, the most ethereal spirit would have frozen. But it was in his power to buy flattery in rhyme, and it suited his inclination so to do. He liked the trick of rhyme, at once so easy and so charming in the sonorous Castilian tongue—it was a pleasure of the ear which he keenly appreciated, as he did also those of the eye and the palate.

“I addressed to him,” Fray Sebastian continued with becoming modesty, “a little effort of my Muse—really a mere trifle—on the suppression of heresy, comparing the Lord Inquisitor to Michael the archangel, with the dragon beneath his feet. You understand, señor?”

Juan understood so well that it was with difficulty he refrained from flinging the unlucky rhymester into the river. But of late he had learned many a lesson in prudence. Still, his words sounded almost fierce in their angry scorn. “I suppose he gave you in return—a good dinner.”

But Fray Sebastian would not take offence. He answered mildly, “He was pleased to express his approval of my humble effort, and to admit me into his noble household; where, except my poor exertions to amuse and untire him by my conversation may be accounted a service, I am of no service to him whatever.”

“So you are clad in purple and fine linen, and fare sumptuously every day,” said Juan, with contempt that he cared not to conceal.

“As to purple and fine linen, señor, I am an unworthy son of St. Francis; and it is well known to your Excellency that by the rules of our Order not even one scrap of holland—— But you are laughing at me, as you used in old times, Señor Don Juan.”

“God knows, I have little heart to laugh. In those old times you speak of, Fray, there was no great love between you and me; and no marvel, for I was a wild and idle lad. But I think you loved my gentle brother, Don Carlos!”

“That I did, señor, as did every one. Has any evil come upon him? St. Francis forbid!”

“Worse evil than I care to name. He lies in yonder tower.”

“The blessed Virgin have pity on us!” cried Fray Sebastian, crossing himself.

“I thought you would have heard of his arrest,” Juan continued, sadly.

“I, señor! Never a breath. Holy Saints defend us! How could I, or any one, dream that a young gentleman of noblest race, well learned, and of truly pious disposition, would have had the ill luck to fall under so foul a suspicion? Doubtless it is the work of some personal enemy. And—ah, woe is me! ‘the clattering horse-shoe ever wants a nail’—here have I been naming heresy, ’talking of halters in the house of the hanged?’”

“Hold thy tongue about hanging,” said Juan, testily, “and listen to me, if thou canst.”

Fray Sebastian indicated, by a respectful gesture, his profound attention.

“It has been whispered to me that the door of his reverence’s heart may be unlocked by a golden key.”

Fray Sebastian assured him this was a foul slander; concluding a panegyric on the purity of the Inquisitor’s administration with the words, “You would forfeit his favour for ever by presuming so far as to offer a bribe.”

“No doubt,” answered Juan with a sneer, and a hard, worldly look in his face that of late was often seen there. “I should deserve to pay that penalty were I the fool to approach him with a bow, and, ‘Here is a purse of gold for your sanctity.’ But ‘one take is worth two I give you’s,’ and there is a way of saying ‘take’ to every man. And I ask you, for old kindness, to show me how to say it to his lordship.”

Fray Sebastian pondered. After an interval he said, with some hesitation, “May I venture to inquire, señor, what means you possess of clearing the character of your noble brother?”

Juan only answered by a sorrowful shake of the head.

Darker and darker grew the friar’s sensual but good-natured face.

“His excellent reputation, his brilliant success at college, his blameless life should tell in his favour,” Juan said at length.

“Have you nothing more direct? If not, I fear it is a bad business. But ‘silence is called holy,’ so I hold my peace. Still, if indeed (which the Saints forbid) he has fallen inadvertently into error, it is a comfort to reflect that there will be little difficulty in reclaiming him.”

Juan made no reply. Did he expect his brother to retract? Did he wish him to do it? These were questions he scarcely dared to ask himself. From any reply he could give to them he shrank in shuddering dread.

“He was ever gentle and tractable,” Fray Sebastian continued, “and ofttimes but too easy to persuade.”

Juan rose, took up a stone, and threw it into the river. When the circles it made in the water had died away, he turned back to the friar. “But what can I do for him?” he asked, with an undertone of helpless sadness, touching from the lips of one so strong.

Fray Sebastian put his hand to his forehead, and looked as if he were composing another poem. “Let me see, your Excellency. There is my lord’s nephew and pet page, Don Alonzo (where he has got the ‘Don’ I know not, but Don Dinero makes many a noble); I dare say it would not hurt the Donzelo’s soft white hand to finger a purse of gold ducats, and those same ducats might help your brother’s cause not a little.”

“Manage the matter for me, and I will thank you heartily. Gold, to any extent that will serve him, shall be forthcoming; and, my good friend, see that you spare it not.”

“Ah, Señor Don Juan, you were always generous.”

“My brother’s life is at stake,” said Juan, softening a little. But the hard look returned as he added, “Those who live in great men’s houses have many expenses, Fray. Always remember that I am your friend, and that my ducats are very much at your service also.”

Fray Sebastian thanked him with his lowest bow. Juan’s look changed again; this time more rapidly. “If it were possible,” he added, in low, hurried tones—“if you could only bring me the least word of tidings from him—even one word to say if he lives, if he is well, how he is entreated. Three months it is now since he was taken, and I have heard no more than if they had carried him to his grave.”

“It is a difficult matter, a very difficult matter that you ask of me. Were I a son of St. Dominic, I might indeed accomplish somewhat. For the black cowls are everything now. Still, I will do all I can, señor.”

“I trust you, Fray. If under cover of seeking his conversion, of anything, you could but see him.”

“Impossible, señor—utterly impossible.”

“Why? They sometimes send friars to reason with the—the prisoners.”

“Always Dominicans or Jesuits—men well-known and trusted by the Board of the Inquisition. However, señor, nothing that a man may do shall be wanting on my part. Will not that content your Excellency?”

“Content me? Well, as far as you are concerned, yes. But, in truth, I am haunted day and night by one horrible dread. What if—if they should torture him? My gentle brother, frail in mind and body, tender and sensitive as a woman! Terror and pain would drive him mad.” The last words were a quick broken whisper. But outward expressions of emotion with Don Juan were always speedily repressed. Recovering apparent calmness, he stretched out his hand to Fray Sebastian, saying, with a faint smile, “I have kept you too long from my lord’s supper-table—pardon me.”

“Your Excellency’s condescension in conversing with me deserves my profound gratitude,” replied the monk, in true Castilian fashion. His residence at the Inquisitor’s Court had certainly improved his manners.

Don Juan gave him his address, and it was agreed that he should call on him in a few days. Fray Sebastian then offered to bring him on his way through the garden and court of that part of the Triana which formed the Inquisitor’s residence. But Juan declined the favour. He could not answer for himself when brought face to face with the impious pomp and luxury of the persecutor of the saints. He feared that, by some wild word or deed, he might imperil the cause he had at heart. So he hailed a waterman who was guiding his little boat down the tranquil stream in the waning light. The boat was soon brought to the place where the Inquisitor had landed from his barge; and Juan, after shaking the dust from his feet, both literally and metaphorically, sprang into it.

The popular ideal of a persecutor is very far from the truth. At the word there rises before most minds the vision of a lean, pale-faced, fierce-eyed monk, whose frame is worn with fasting, and his scourge red with his own blood. He is a fanatic—pitiless, passionate, narrow-minded, perhaps half insane—but penetrated to the very core of his being with intense zeal for his Church’s interest, and prepared in her service both to inflict and to endure all things.

Very unlike this ideal were most of the great persecutors who carried out the behests of Antichrist. They were generally able men. But they were pre-eminently men wise in their generation, men of their generation, men who “loved this present world.” They gave the Church the service of strong hand and skilful brain that she needed; and she gave them, in return, “gold, and silver, and precious stones, and pearls; and fine linen, and purple, and silk, and scarlet; and all sweet wood; and all manner of vessels of ivory, and all manner of vessels of most precious wood, and of brass, and of iron, and marble; and cinnamon, and odours, and ointment, and frankincense; and wine, and oil, and fine flour, and wheat; and beasts, and sheep, and horses and chariots, and slaves and souls of men.” It was for these things, not for abstract ideas, not for high places in heaven, that they tortured and murdered the saints of God. Whilst the cry of the oppressed reached the ears of the Most High, those who were “wearing them out” lived in unhallowed luxury, in degrading sensuality. Gonzales de Munebrãga was a good specimen of the class to which he belonged—he was no exceptional case.

Nor was Fray Sebastian anything but an ordinary character. He was amiable, good-natured, free from gross vices—what is usually called “well disposed.” But he “loved wine and oil,” and to obtain what he loved he was willing to become the servant and the flatterer of worse men than himself, at the terrible risk of sinking to their level.

With all the force of his strong nature, Don Juan Alvarez loathed Munebrãga, and scorned Fray Sebastian. Gradually a strange alteration appeared to come over the little book he constantly studied—his brother’s Spanish Testament. The words of promise, and hope, and comfort, in which he used to delight, seemed to be blotted from its pages; while ever more and more those pages were filled with fearful threatenings and denunciations of doom—against hypocritical scribes and Pharisees, false teachers and wicked high priests—against great Babylon, the mother of abominations. The peace-breathing, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do,” grew fainter and more faint, until at last it faded completely from his memory; while there stood out before him night and day, in characters of fire, “Serpents, generation of vipers, how can ye escape the damnation of hell!”

XXX

The Captive.

“Ay, but for me—my name called—drawn
Like a conscript’s lot from the lap’s black yawn
He has dipped into on the battle dawn.
Bid out of life by a nod, a glance,
Stumbling, mute mazed, at Nature’s chance
With a rapid finger circling round,
Fixed to the first poor inch of ground
To fight from, where his foot was found,
Whose ear but a moment since was free
To the wide camp’s hum and gossipry—
Summoned, a solitary man,
To end his life where his life began,
From the safe glad rear to the awful van.”

—R. Browning

On the night of his arrest, when Don Carlos Alvarez was left alone in his dungeon, he stood motionless as one in a dream. At length he raised his head, and began to look around him. A lamp had been left with him; and its light illumined a cell ten feet square, with a vaulted roof. Through a narrow grating, too high for him to reach, one or two stars were shining; but these he saw not. He only saw the inner door sheathed with iron; the mat of rushes on which he was to sleep; the stool that was to be his seat; the two earthen pitchers of water that completed his scanty furniture. From the first moment these things looked strangely familiar to him. He threw himself on the mat to think and pray. He comprehended his situation perfectly. It seemed as if he had been all his life expecting this hour; as if he had been born for it, and led up to it gradually through all his previous experience. As yet he did not think that his fate was terrible; he only thought that it was inevitable—something that was to come upon him, and that in due course had come at last. It was his impression that he should always remain there, and never more see anything beyond that grated window and that iron door.

There was a degree of unreality about this mood. For the past fortnight, or more, his mind had been strained to its utmost tension. Suspense, more wearing even than sorrow, had held him on the rack. Sleep had seldom visited his eyes; and when it came, it had been broken and fitful.

Now the worst had befallen him. Suspense was over; certainty had come. This brought at first a kind of rest to the overtaxed mind and frame. He was as one who hears a sentence of death, but who is taken off the rack. No dread of the future could quite overpower the present unreasoning sense of relief.

Thus it happened that an hour afterwards he was sleeping the dreamless sleep of exhaustion. Well for him if, instead of “death’s twin-brother,” the angel of death himself had been sent to open the prison doors and set the captive free! And yet, after all, would it have been well for him?

So utter was his exhaustion, that when food was placed in his cell the next morning, he only awaked for a moment, then slept again as soundly as before. Not till some hours later did he finally shake off his slumber. He lay still for some time, examining with a strange kind of curiosity the little bolted aperture which was near the top of his door, and watching a solitary broken sunbeam which had struggled through the grating that served him for a window, and threw a gleam of light on the opposite wall.

Then, with a start, he asked himself, “Where am I?” The answer brought an agony of fear, of horror, of bitter pain. “Lost! lost! God have mercy on me! I am lost!” As one in intense bodily anguish, he writhed, moaned—ay, even cried aloud.

No wonder. Hope, love, life—alike in its noblest aims and its commonest joys—all were behind him. Before him were the dreary dungeon days and nights—it might be months or years; the death of agony and shame; and, worst of all, the unutterable horrors of the torture-room, from which he shrank as any one of us would shrink to-day.

Slowly and at last came the large burning tears. But very few of them fell; for his anguish was as yet too fierce for many tears. All that day the storm raged on. When the alcayde brought his evening meal, he lay still, his face covered with his cloak. But as night drew on he rose, and paced his narrow cell with hasty, irregular steps, like those of a caged wild animal.

How should he endure the horrible loneliness of the present, the maddening terror of all that was to come? And this life was to last. To last, until it should be succeeded by worse horrors and fiercer anguish. Words of prayer died on his lips. Or, even when he uttered them, it seemed as if God heard not—as if those thick walls and grated doors shut him out too.

Yet one thing was clear to him from the beginning. Deeper than all other fears within him lay the fear of denying his Lord. Again and again did he repeat, “When called in question, I will at once confess all.” For he knew that, according to a law recently enacted by the Holy Office, and sanctioned by the Pope, no subsequent retractation could save a prisoner who had once confessed—he must die. And he desired finally and for ever to put it out of his own power to save his life and lose it.

As every dreary morning dawned upon him, he thought that ere its sun set he might be called to confess his Master’s name before the solemn tribunal. At first he awaited the summons with a trembling heart. But as time passed on, the delay became more dreadful than the anticipated examination. At last he began to long for any change that might break the monotony of his prison-life.

The only person, with the exception of his gaoler, that ever entered his cell, was a member of the Board of Inquisitors, who was obliged by their rules to make a fortnightly inspection of the prisons. But the Dominican monk to whom this duty was relegated merely asked the prisoner a few formal questions: such as, whether he was well, whether he received his appointed provision, whether his warder used him with civility. To these Carlos always answered prudently that he had no complaint to make. At first he was wont to inquire, in his turn, when his case might be expected to come on. To this it would be answered, that there was no hurry about the matter. The Lords Inquisitors had much business on hand, and many more important cases than his to attend to; he must await their leisure and their pleasure.

At length a kind of lethargy stole over him; though it was broken frequently by sharp bursts of anguish. He ceased to take note of time, ceased to make fruitless inquiries of his gaoler, who would never tell him anything. Upon one occasion he asked this man for a Breviary, since he sometimes found it difficult to recall even the gospel words that he knew so well. But he was answered in the set terms the Inquisitors taught their officials, that the book he ought now to study was the book of his own heart, which he should examine diligently, in order to the confession and repentance of his sins.

During the morning hours the outer door of his cell (there were two) was usually left open, in order to admit a little fresh air. At such times he often heard footsteps in the corridors, and doors opening and shutting. With a kind of sick yearning, not unmixed with hope, he longed that some visitant would enter his cell. But none ever came. Some of the Inquisitors were keen observers and good students of character. They had watched Carlos narrowly before his arrest, and they had arrived at the conclusion that utter and prolonged solitude was the best remedy for his disease.

Such solitude has driven many a weary tortured soul to insanity. But that divine compassion which no dungeon walls or prison bars avail to shut out, saved Carlos from such a fate.

One morning he knew from the stir outside that some of his fellow-captives had received a visit. But the deep stillness that followed the dying away of footsteps in the corridor was broken by a most unwonted sound. A loud, clear, and even cheerful voice sang out,—

“Vençidos van los frailes; vençidos van!
Corridas van los lobos; corridos van!”

[There go the friars; there they run!
There go the wolves, the wolves are done!][#]

[#] Everything related of Juliano Hernandez is strictly true.

Every nerve and fibre of the lonely captive’s heart thrilled responsive to that strain. Evidently the song was one of triumph. But from whose lips? Who could dare to triumph in the abode of misery, the very seat of Satan?

Carlos Alvarez had heard that voice before. A striking peculiarity in the dialect rivetted this fact upon his mind. The words were neither the pure sonorous Castilian that he spoke himself, nor the soft gliding sibilant Andaluz that he heard in Seville, nor yet the patois of the Manchegan peasants around his mountain home. In such accents one, and one alone, had ever spoken in his hearing. And that was the man who said, “For the joy of bringing food to the perishing, water to the thirsty, light to those that sit in darkness, rest to the weary and heavy-laden, I have counted the cost, and I shall pay the price right willingly.”

Whatever men had done to the body, it was evident that Juliano Hernandez was still unbroken in heart, strong in hope and courage. A fettered, tortured captive, he was yet enabled, not only to hold his own faith fast, but actually to minister to that of others. His rough rhyme intimated to his fellow-captives that “the wolves” of Rome were leaving his cell, vanquished by the sword of the Spirit. And that, as he overcame, so might they also.

Carlos heard, understood, and felt from that hour that he was not alone. Moreover, the grace and strength so richly given to his fellow-sufferer seemed to bring Christ nearer to himself. “Surely God is in this place—even here,” he said, “and I knew it not.” And then, bowing his head, he wept—wept such tears as bring help and healing with them.

Up to this time he had held Christ’s hand indeed, else had he “utterly fainted.” But he held it in the dark. He clung to him desperately, as if for mere life and reason. Now the light began to dawn upon him. He began to see the face of Him to whom he had been clinging. His good and gracious words—such words as, “Let not your heart be troubled,” “My peace I give unto you”—became again, as in old times, full of meaning, instinct with life. He “remembered the years of the right hand of the Most High;” he thought of those days that now seemed so long ago, when, with such thrilling joy, he received the truth from Juliano’s book. And he knew that the same joy might be his even in that dreary prison, because the same God was above him, and the same Lord was “rich unto all that call upon him.”

On the next occasion when Juliano raised his brave song of victory, Carlos had the courage to respond, by chanting in the vulgar tongue, “The Lord hear thee in the day of trouble; the name of the God of Jacob defend thee. Send thee help from the sanctuary, and strengthen thee out of Zion.”

But this brought him a visit from the alcayde, who commanded him to “forbear that noise.”

“I only chanted a versicle from one of the Psalms,” he explained.

“No matter. Prisoners are not permitted to disturb the Santa Casa,” said Gasper Benevidio, as he quitted the cell.

The “Santa Casa,” or Holy House, was the proper style and title of the prison of the Holy Inquisition. At first sight the name appears a hideous mockery. We seem to catch in it an echo of the laughter of fiends, as in that other kindred name, “The Society of Jesus.” Yet, just then, the Triana was truly a holy house. Precious in the sight of the Lord were those who crowded its dismal cells. Many a lonely captive wept and prayed and agonized there, who, though now forgotten on earth, shall one day shine with a brightness eclipsing kings and conquerors—“a star for ever and ever.”

XXXI

Ministering Angels.

“Thou wilt be near, and not forsake,
  To turn the bitter pool
Into a bright and breezy lake,
  The throbbing brow to cool;
Till, left awhile with Thee alone,
  The wilful heart be fain to own
That he, by whom our bright hours shone,
  Our darkness best may rule.”

—Keble

The overpowering heat of an Andalusian summer aggravated the physical sufferings of the captives. And so did the scanty and unwholesome provisions, which were all that reached them through the hands of the avaricious Benevidio.

But this last hardship was little felt by Carlos. Small as were the rations he received, they usually proved more than enough for him; indeed, the coarse food sometimes lay almost untasted in his cell.

One morning, however, to his extreme surprise, something was pushed through the grating in the lower part of his inner door, the outer door being open, as was usual at that hour. The mysterious gift consisted of white bread and good meat, of which he partook with mingled astonishment and thankfulness. But the relief to the unvaried monotony of his life, and the occupation the little circumstance gave his thoughts, was much more to him than the welcome novelty of a wholesome meal.

The act of charity was repeated often, indeed almost daily. Sometimes bread and meat, sometimes fruit—the large luscious grapes or purple figs of that southern climate—were thus conveyed to him. Endless were the speculations these gifts awakened in his mind. He longed to discover his benefactor, not only to express his gratitude, but to supplicate that the same favours might be extended to his fellow-sufferers, especially to Juliano. Moreover, would not one so kindly disposed be willing to give him what he longed for far more than meat or drink—some word of tidings from the world without, or from his dear imprisoned brethren?

At first he suspected the under-gaoler, whose name was Herrera. This man was far more gentle and compassionate than Benevidio. Carlos often thought he would have shown him some kindness, or at least have spoken to him, if he dared. But dire would have been the penalty even the slightest transgression of the prison rules would have entailed. Carlos naturally feared to broach the matter, lest, if Herrera really had nothing to do with it, the unknown benefactor might be betrayed.

The same motive prevented his hazarding a question or exclamation at the time the little gifts were thrust in. How could he tell who might be within hearing? If it were safe to speak, surely the person outside would try the experiment.

It was generally very early in the morning, at the hour when the outer door was first opened, that the gifts came. Or, it delayed a little later, he would often notice something timid and even awkward in the way they were pushed through the grating, and the approaching and retreating footsteps, for which he used to listen so eagerly, would be quick and light, like those of a child.

At last a day came, marked indeed with white in the dark chronicle of prison life. Bread and meat were conveyed to him as usual; then there was a low knock upon the door. Carlos, who was standing close to it, responded by an eager “Chien es?”

“A friend. Kneel down, señor, and put your ear to the grating.”

The captive obeyed, and a woman’s voice whispered, “Do not lose heart, your worship. Friends outside are thinking of you.”

“One friend is with me, even here,” Carlos answered. “But,” he added, “I entreat of you to tell me your name, that I may know whom to thank for the daily kindnesses which lighten my captivity.”

“I am only a poor woman, señor, the alcayde’s servant. And what I have brought you is your own, and but a small part of it.”

“My own! How?”

“Robbed from you by my master, who defrauds and spoils the poor prisoners even of their necessary food. And if any one dares to complain to the Lords Inquisitors, he throws him into the Masmurra.”

“The—what?”

“A deep, horrible cistern which he hath in his house.” This was spoken in a still lower voice.

Carlos was not yet sufficiently naturalized to horrors to repress a shudder. He said, “Then I fear it is at great risk to yourself that you show kindness to me.”

“It is for the dear Lord’s sake, señor.”

“Then you—you too—love his Name!” said Carlos, tears of joy starting to his eyes.

“Chiton,[#] señor! chiton! But as far as a poor woman may, I do love him,” she added in a frightened whisper. “What I want now to tell you is, that the noble lord, your brother—”

[#] Hush.

“My brother!” cried Carlos; “what of him? On, tell me, for Christ’s dear sake!”

“Let your Excellency speak lower. We may be overheard. I know he has seen my master once and again, and has given him much money to provide your worship with good food and other conveniences, which he, however, not having the fear of God before his eyes—” The rest of the sentence did not reach the ear of Carlos; but he could easily guess its import.

“That is little matter,” he said. “But oh, kind friend, if I could send him a message, were it only one word.”

Perhaps the wistful earnestness of his tone awakened latent mother instincts in the poor woman’s heart. She knew that he was very young; that he had lain there for dreary months alone, away from the bright world into which he was just entering, and which was now shut to him for ever.

“I will do all I can for your Excellency,” she said, in a tone that betrayed some emotion.

“Then,” said Carlos, “tell him it is well with me. ‘The Lord is my shepherd’—all that psalm, bid him read it. But, above all things, say unto him to leave this place—to fly to Germany or England. For I fear, I fear—no, do not tell him what I fear. Only implore of him to go. You promise?”

“I promise, young sir, to do all I can. God comfort him and you.”

“And God reward you, brave and kind friend. But one word more, if it may be without risk to you. Tell me of my dear fellow-prisoners. Especially of Dr. Cristobal Losada, Don Juan Ponce de Leon, Fray Constantino, and Juliano Hernandez, called Juliano El Chico.”

“I do not know anything of Fray Constantino. I think he is not here. The others you name have—suffered.”

“Not death!—surely not death!” said Carlos, in terror.

“There be worse things than death, señor,” the poor woman answered. “Even my master, whose heart is iron, is astonished at the fortitude of Señor Juliano. He fears nothing—seems to feel nothing. No tortures have wrung from him a word that could harm any one.”

“God sustain him! Oh, my friend,” Carlos went on with passionate earnestness, “if by any deed of kindness, such as you have shown me, you could bring God’s dear suffering servant so much comfort as a cup of cold water, truly your reward would be rich in heaven. For the day will come when that poor man will take his station in the court of the King of kings, and at the right hand of Christ, in great glory and majesty.”

“I know it, señor. I have tried—”

Just then an approaching footstep made Carlos start; but the poor woman said, “It is only the child, God bless her. But I must go, señor; for she comes to tell me her father has arisen, and is making ready to begin his daily rounds.”

“Her father! Does Benevidio’s own child help you to comfort his prisoners?”

“Even so, thank the good God. I am her nurse. But I must not linger another moment. Adiõs, señor.”

“Vaya con Dios, good mother. And God repay your kindness, as he surely will.”

And surely he did repay it; but not on earth, unless the honour of being accounted worthy to suffer shame and stripes and cruel imprisonment for his sake be called a reward.[#]

[#] The story of the gaoler’s servant and his little daughter is historical.

XXXII

The Valley of the Shadow of Death.

“And shall I fear the coward fear of standing all alone
To testify of Zion’s King and the glory of his throne?
My Father, O my Father, I am poor and frail and weak,
Let me not utter of my own, for idle words I speak;
But give me grace to wrestle now, and prompt my faltering tongue.
And name thy name upon my soul, and so shall I be
  strong.”

—Mrs. Stuart Menteith

Many a weary hour did Carlos shorten by chanting the psalms and hymns of the Church in a low voice for himself. At first he sang them loudly enough for his fellow-prisoners to hear; but the commands of Benevidio, which were accompanied even by threats of personal violence, soon made him forbear. Not a few kindly deeds and words of comfort came to him through the ministrations of the poor servant Maria Gonsalez, aided by the gaoler’s little daughter. On the whole, he was growing accustomed to his prison life. It seemed as though it would last for ever; as though every other kind of life lay far away from him in the dim distance. There were slow and weary hours, more than he could count; there were bitter hours—of passionate regret, of dark foreboding, of unutterable fear. But there were also quiet hours, burdened by no special pain or sorrow; there were sometimes even happy hours, when Christ seemed very near, and his consolations were not small with his prisoner.

It was one of the quiet hours, when thoughts of the past, not full of the anguish of vain yearning, as they often were, but calm and even pleasant, were occupying his mind. He had been singing the Te Deum for himself; and thinking how sweetly the village choristers used to chant it at Nuera; not in the time of Father Tomas, but in that of his predecessor, a gentle old man with a special taste for music, whom he and his brother, then little children, loved, but used to tease. He was so deeply engaged in feeling over again his poignant distress upon one particular occasion when Juan had offended the aged priest, that all his present sorrows were forgotten for the moment, when he heard the large key grate harshly in the strong outer door of his cell.

Benevidio entered, bearing some articles of dress, which he ordered the prisoner to put on immediately.

Carlos obeyed in silence, though not without surprise, perhaps even a passing feeling of indignation. For the very form and fashion of the garments he was thus obliged to assume (a kind of jacket without sleeves, and long loose trowsers), meant to the Castilian noble keen insult and degradation.

“Take off your shoes,” said the alcayde. “Prisoners always come before their reverences with uncovered head and feet. Now follow me.”

It was, then, the summons to stand before his judges. A thrilling dread took possession of his soul. Heedless of the alcayde’s presence, he threw himself for one brief moment on his knees. Then, though his cheek was pale, he could speak calmly. “I am ready,” he said.

He followed his conductor through several long and gloomy corridors. At length he ventured to ask, “Whither are you leading me?”

“Chiton!” said Benevidio, placing his finger on his lips. Speech was not permitted there.

At last they drew near an open door. The alcayde quickened his pace, entered first, made a very low reverence, then drew back again, and motioned Carlos to go forward alone.

He did so; and found himself in the presence of his judges—the Board, or “Table of the Inquisition.” He bowed, though rather from the habit of courtesy, than from any special respect to the tribunal, and stood silent.

Before any one addressed him, he had ample leisure for observation. The room was large, lofty, and surrounded by pillars, between which there were handsome hangings of gilt leather. At one end, the furthest from him, stood a great crucifix, larger than life. Around the long table on the estrada six or seven persons were seated. Of these, one alone was covered, he who sat nearest the door by which Carlos had entered, and facing the crucifix. He knew that this was Gonzales de Munebrãga, and the thought that he had once pleaded earnestly for that man’s life, helped to give him boldness in his presence.

At Munebrãga’s right hand sat a stern and stately man, whom Carlos, though he had never seen him before, knew, from his dress and the position he occupied, to be the prior of the Dominican convent adjoining the Triana. One or two of the subordinate members of the Board he had met occasionally in other days, and he had then considered them very far his own inferiors, both in education and in social position.

At length Munebrãga, half turning, motioned him to approach the table. He did so, and a person who sat at the opposite end, and appeared by his dress to be a notary, made him lay his hand on a missal, and administered an oath to him.

It bound him to speak the truth, and to keep everything secret which he might see or hear; and he took it without hesitation. A bench at the Inquisitor’s left hand was then pointed out to him, and he was desired to be seated.

A member of the Board, who bore the title of the Promoter-fiscal, conducted the examination. After some merely formal questions, he asked him whether he knew the cause of his present imprisonment? Carlos answered immediately, “I do.”

This was not the course usually taken by prisoners of the Holy Office. They commonly denied all knowledge of any offence that could have induced “their reverences” to order their arrest With a slight elevation of the eyebrows, perhaps expressive of surprise, his examiner continued, gently enough, “Are you then aware of having erred from the faith, and by word or deed offended your own soul, and the consciences of good Christians? Speak boldly, my son; for to those who acknowledge their faults the Holy Office is full of tenderness and mercy.”

“I have not erred, consciously, from the true faith, since I knew it.”

Here the Dominican prior interposed. “You can ask for an advocate,” he said; “and as you are under twenty-five years of age, you can also claim the assistance of a curator.[#] Furthermore, you can request a copy of the deposition against you, in order to prepare your defence.”

[#] Guardian.

“Always supposing,” said Munebrãga himself, “that he formally denies the crime laid to his charge.—Do you?” he asked, turning to the prisoner.

“We understand you so to do,” said the prior, looking earnestly at Carlos. “You plead not guilty?”

Carlos rose from his seat, and advanced a step or two nearer to the table where sat the men who held his life in their hands. Addressing himself chiefly to the prior, he said, “I know that by taking the course your reverence recommends to me, as I believe out of kindness, I may defer my fate for a little while. I may beat the air, fighting in the dark with witnesses whom you would refuse to name to me, still more to confront with me. Or, I may make you wring out the truth from me slowly, drop by drop. But what would that avail me? Neither for the truth, nor yet for any falsehood I might be base enough to utter, would you loose your hand from your prey. I prefer that straight road which is ever the shortest way. I stand before your reverences this day a professed Lutheran, despairing of mercy from man, but full of confidence in the mercy of God.”

A movement of surprise ran around the Board at these daring words. The prior turned away from the prisoner with a pained, disconcerted look; but only to meet a half-triumphant, half-reproachful glance from his superior, Munebrãga. But Munebrãga was not displeased; far from it. It did not grieve him that the prisoner, a mere youth, “was throwing himself into the fire.” That was his own concern. He was saving “their reverences” a great deal of trouble. Thanks to his hardihood, his folly, or his despair, a good piece of work was quickly and easily accomplished. For it was the business of the Inquisitors first to convict; retractations were an after consideration.

“Thou art a bold heretic, and fit for the fire,” he said. “We know how to deal with such.” And he placed his hand on the bell that was to signal the termination of the interview.

But the prior, recovering from his astonishment, once more interposed. “My lord and your reverence, be pleased to allow me a few minutes, in which I may set plainly before the prisoner both the wonted mercy and lenity of the Holy Office to the repentant, and the fatal consequences of obstinacy.”

Munebrãga acquiesced by a nod, then leant back carelessly in his seat; this was not a part of the proceedings in which he felt much interest.

No one could doubt the sincerity with which the prior warned Carlos of the doom that awaited the impenitent heretic. The horrors of the death of fire, the deeper, darker horror of the fire that never dies, these were the theme of his discourse. If not actually eloquent, it had at least the earnestness of intense conviction. “But to the penitent,” he added, and the hard face softened a little, “God is ever merciful, and his Church is merciful too.”

Carlos listened in silence, his eyes bent on the ground. But when the Dominican concluded, he looked up again, glanced first at the great crucifix, then fixed his eyes steadily on the prior’s face. “I cannot deny my Lord,” he said. “I am in your hands, and you can do with me as you will. But God is mightier than you.”

“Enough!” said Munebrãga, and he rang the hand-bell. After a very short delay, the alcayde reappeared, and led Carlos back to his cell.

As soon as he was gone, Munebrãga turned to the prior. “My lord,” he said, “your wonted penetration is at fault for once. Is this the youth whom you assured us a few months of solitary confinement would render pliant as a reed and plastic as wax? Whereas we find him as bold a heretic as Losada, or D’Arellano, or that imp of darkness, little Juliano.”

“Nay, my lord, I do not despair of him. Far from it. He is much less firm than he seems. Give him time, with a due mixture of kindness and severity, and, I trust in our Lord and St. Dominic, we will see him a hopeful penitent.”

“I am of your mind, reverend father,” said the Promoter-fiscal. “It is probable he confessed only to avoid the Question. Many of them fear it more than death.”

“You are right,” answered Munebrãga quickly.

The notary looked up from his papers. “Please your lordships,” he said, “I think it is the sangre azul that makes him so bold. He is Alvarez de Meñaya.”

“Keep to thy quires and thine ink-horn, man of law,” interposed Munebrãga angrily. “Thy part is to write down what wiser men say, not to prate thyself.” It was well known that the Inquisitor, far from boasting the sangre azul himself, had not even what the Spaniards call “good red blood” flowing in his veins; hence his irritation at the notary’s speech.

There is often a great apparent similarity in the effects of quite opposite causes. That which results from a degree of weakness of character may sometimes wear the aspect of transcendent courage. A bolder man than Don Carlos Alvarez might, in his circumstances, have made a struggle for life. He might have fought over every point as it arose; have availed himself of every loophole for escape; have thrown upon his persecutors the onus of proving his crime. But such a course would not have been possible to Carlos. As a running leap is far more easy than a standing one, so to sensitive temperaments it is easier to rush forward to meet pain or danger than to stand still and fight it off, knowing all the time that it must come at last.

He would have been astonished had he guessed the impression made upon his examiners. To himself it seemed that he had confessed his Lord in much weakness. Still, he had confessed him. And shut out as he was from all ordinary “means of grace,” the act of confession became a kind of sacrament to him. It was a token and an evidence of Christ’s presence with him, and Christ’s power working in him. He could say now, “In the day that I called upon thee thou answeredst me and strengthenedst me with strength in my soul.” And from that hour he seemed to live in greater nearness to Christ, and more intimate communion with him, than he had ever done before.

It was well that he had strong consolation, for his need was great. Two other examinations followed after a short interval; and in both of these Munebrãga took a far more active part than he had done in the first. The Inquisitors were at that time extremely anxious to procure evidence upon which to condemn Fray Constantino, who up to this point had steadily resisted every effort they had made to induce him to criminate himself. They thought it probable that Don Carlos Alvarez could assist them if he would, especially since there had been found amongst his papers a highly laudatory letter of recommendation from the late Canon Magistral.

Still, his assistance was needed even more in other matters. It is scarcely necessary to say that Munebrãga, who forgot nothing, had not forgotten the mysterious appointment made with him, but never kept, by a cousin of the prisoner’s, who was now stated to be hopelessly insane. What did that mean? Was the story true; or were the family keeping back evidence which might compromise one or more of its remaining members?

But Carlos was expected to resolve a yet graver question; or, at least, one that touched him more nearly. His own arrest had been decreed in consequence of two depositions against him. First, a member of Losada’s congregation had named him as one of the habitual attendants; then a monk of San Isodro had fatally compromised him under the torture. The monk’s testimony was clear and explicit, and was afterwards confirmed by others. But the first witness had deposed that two gentlemen of the name of Meñaya had been wont to attend the conventicle. Who was the second? Hitherto this problem had baffled the Inquisitors. Don Manuel Alvarez and his sons were noted for orthodoxy; and the only other Meñaya known to them was the prisoner’s brother. But in his favour there was every presumption, both from his character as a gallant officer in the army of the most Catholic king, and from the fact of his voluntary return to Seville; where, instead of shunning, he seemed to court observation, by throwing himself continually in the Inquisitor’s way, and soliciting audience of him.

Still, of course, his guilt was possible. But, in the absence of anything suspicious in his conduct, some clearer evidence than the vague deposition alluded to was absolutely necessary, in order to warrant proceedings against him. According to the inquisitorial laws, what they styled “full half proof” of a crime must be obtained before ordering the arrest of the supposed criminal.

And the key to all these perplexities had now to be wrung from the unwilling hands of Carlos. This needed “half proof” could, and must, be furnished by him. “He must speak out,” said those stern, pitiless men, who held him in their hands.

But here he was stronger than they. Neither arts, persuasions, threats, nor promises, availed to unseal those pale, silent lips. Would torture do it? He was told plainly, that unless he would answer every question put to him freely and distinctly, he must undergo its worst horrors.

His heart throbbed wildly, then grew sick and faint. A dread far keener than the dread of death prompted one short sharp struggle against the inevitable. He said, “It is against your own law to torture a confessed criminal for information concerning others. For the law presumes that a man loves himself better than his neighbour; and, therefore, that he who has informed against himself would more readily inform against other heretics if he knew them.”

He was right. His early studies had enabled him to quote correctly one of the rules laid down by the highest authority for the regulation of the inquisitorial proceedings. But what mattered rules and canons to the members of a secret and irresponsible tribunal?

Munebrãga covered his momentary embarrassment with a sneer. “That rule was framed for delinquents of another sort,” he said. “You Lutheran heretics have the command, ‘Thou shall love thy neighbour as thyself,’ so deeply rooted in your hearts, that the very flesh must needs be torn from your bones ere you will inform against your brethren.[#] I overrule your objection as frivolous.”

[#] Words actually used by this monster.

And then a sentence, more dreaded than the terrible death-sentence itself, received the formal sanction of the Board.

Once more alone in his cell, Carlos flung himself on his knees, and pressing his burning brow against the cold damp stone, cried aloud in his anguish, “Let this cup—only this—pass from me!”

His was just the nature to which the thought of physical suffering is most appalling. Keenly sensitive in mind and body, he shrank in unspeakable dread from what stronger characters might brave or defy. His vivid imagination intensified every pang he felt or feared. His mind was like a room hung round with mirrors, in which every terrible thing, reflected a hundred times, became a hundred terrors instead of one. What another would have endured once, he endured over and over again in agonized anticipation.

At times the nervous horror grew absolutely insupportable. Tearfulness and trembling took hold upon him. He felt ready to pray that God in his great mercy would take away his life, and let the bearer of the dreaded summons find him beyond all their malice.

One thought haunted him like a demon, whispering words of despair. It had begun to haunt him from the hour when poor Maria Gonsalez told him she had seen his brother. What if they dragged that loved name from his lips! What if, in his weakness, he became Juan’s betrayer! Once it had been in his heart to betray him from selfish love; perhaps in judgment for that sin he was now to betray him through sharp bodily anguish. Even if his will were kept firm all through (which he scarcely dared to hope), would not reason give way, and wild words be wrung from his lips that would too surely ruin all!

He tried to think of his Saviour’s death and passion; tried to pray for strength and patience to drink of his cup. Sometimes he prayed that prayer with strong crying and tears; sometimes with cold mute lips, too weary to cry any longer. If he was heard and answered, he knew it not then.

Days of suspense wore on. They were only less dreary than the nights, when sleep fled from his eyes, and horrible visions (which yet he knew were less horrible than the truth) rose in quick succession before his mind.

One evening, seated on his bench in the twilight, he fell into an uneasy slumber. The dark dread that never left him, mingling with the sunny gleam of old memories, wove a vivid dream of Nuera, and of that summer morning when the first great conflict of his life found an ending in the strong resolve, “Juan, brother! I will never wrong thee, so help me God!”

The grating of the key in the door and the sudden flash of the lamp aroused him. He started to his feet at the alcayde’s entrance. This time no change of dress was prescribed him. He knew his doom. He cried, but to no human ear. From the very depths of his being the prayer arose, “Father, save—sustain me; I am thine!”

XXXIII

On the Other Side.

“Happy are they who learn at last,—
  Though silent suffering teach
The secret of enduring strength,
  And praise too deep for speech,—
Peace that no pressure from without,
  No storm within can reach.

“There is no death for me to fear,
  For Christ my Lord hath died;
There is no curse in all my pain,
  For he was crucified;
And it is fellowship with him
  That keeps me near his side.”

—A. L. Waring

When the light of the next morning streamed in through the narrow grating of his cell, Carlos was there once more, lying on his bed of rushes. But was it indeed the next morning, or was it ten years, twenty years afterwards? Without a painful effort of thought and memory, he himself could scarcely have told. That last night was like a great gulf, fixed between his present and all his past. The moment when he entered that torch-lit subterranean room seemed a sharp, black dividing line, sundering his life into two halves. And the latter half seemed longer than that which had gone before.

Nor could years of suffering have left a sadder impress on the young face, out of which the look of youth had passed, apparently for ever. Brow and lips were pale; but two crimson spots, still telling of feverish pain, burned on the hollow cheeks, while the large lustrous eyes beamed with even unnatural brilliance.

The poor woman, who was doing the work of God’s bright angels in that dismal prison, came softly in. How she obtained entrance there Carlos did not know, and was far too weak to ask, or even to wonder. But probably she was sent by Benevidio, who knew that, in his present condition, some human help was indispensable to the prisoner.

Maria Gonsalez was too well accustomed to scenes of horror to be over-much surprised or shocked by what she saw. Silently, though with a heart full of compassion, she rendered the few little services in her power. She placed the broken frame in as easy a position as she could, and once and again she raised to the parched lips the “cup of cold water” so eagerly desired.

He roused himself to murmur a word of thanks; then, as she prepared to leave him, his eyes followed her wistfully.

“Can I do anything more for you, señor?” she asked.

“Yes, mother. Tell me—have you spoken to my brother?”

“Ay de mi! no, señor,” said the poor woman, whose ability was not equal to her good-will. “I have tried, God wot; but I could not get from my master the name of the place where he lives without making him suspect something, and never since have I had the good fortune to see his face.”

“I know you have done—what you could. My message does not matter now. Not so much. Still, best he should go. Tell him so, when you find him. But, remember, tell him nought of this. You promise, mother! He must never know it—never!”

She spoke a few words of pity and condolence.

“It was horrible!” he faltered, in faint, broken tones. “Worst of all—the return to life. For I thought all was over, and that I should awake face to face with Christ. But—I cannot speak of it.”

There was a long silence; then his eye kindled, and a look of joy—ay, even of triumph—flashed across the wasted, suffering face. “But I have overcome! No; not I. Christ has overcome in me, the weakest of his members. Now I am beyond it—on the other side.”

To the poor tortured captive there had been given a foretaste, strange and sweet, of what they feel who stand on the sea of glass, having the harps of God in their hands. Men had done their worst—their very worst. He knew now all “the dread mystery of pain;” all that flesh could accomplish in its fiercest conflict with spirit. Yet not one word that could injure any one he loved had been wrung from his lips.

All was over now. In that there was mercy—far more mercy than was shown to others. He had been permitted to drain the cup at a single draught. Now he could feel grateful to the physicians, who with truly kind cruelty (and not without some risk to themselves) had prevented, in his case, that fiendish device, “the suspension of the torture.” Even according to the execrable laws of the Inquisition, he had won his right to die in peace.

As time passed on, a blessed sense that he was now out of the hands of man, and in those of God alone, sank like balm upon his weary spirit. Fear was gone; grief had passed away; even memory had almost ceased to give him a pang. For how could he long for the loved faces of former days, when day and night Christ himself was near him? So strangely near, so intimately present, that he sometimes thought that if, through some wonderful relenting of his persecutors, Juan were permitted to come and stand beside him, that loved brother would still seem further away, less real, than the unseen Friend who was keeping watch by his couch. And even the bodily pain, that so seldom left him, was not hard to bear, for it was only the touch of His finger.

He had passed into the clear air upon the mountain top, where the sun shines ever, and the storm winds cannot come. Nothing hurt him; nothing disturbed him now. He had visitors; for what had really placed him beyond the reach of his enemies was, not unnaturally, supposed by them to have brought him into a fitting state to receive their exhortations. So Inquisitors, monks, and friars—“persons of good learning and honest repute”—came in due course to his lonely cell, armed with persuasions and arguments, which were always weighted with threats and promises.

Their voices seemed to reach him faintly, from a great distance. Into “the secret place of the Lord,” where he dwelt now, they could not enter. Threats and promises fell powerless on his ear. What more could they do to him? As far as the mere facts of the case were concerned, this security may have been misplaced—nay, it was misplaced; but it saved him from much suffering. And as for promises, had they thrown open the door of his dungeon and bid him go forth free, only that one intense longing to see his brother’s face would have nerved him to make the effort.

Arguments he was glad to answer when permitted. It was a joy to speak for his Lord, who had done, and was doing, such great things for him. As far as he could, he made use of those Scripture words with which his memory was so richly stored. But more than once it happened that he was forced to take up the weapons which he had learned in the schools to use so skilfully. He tore sophisms to pieces with the dexterity of one who knew how they were constructed, and astonished the students of Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas by vanquishing them on their own ground.

Reproach and insult he met with a fearless meekness that nothing could ruffle. Why should he feel anger? Rather did he pity those who stood without in the darkness, not seeing the Face he saw, not hearing the Voice he heard. Usually, however, those who visited him yielded to the spell of his own sweet and perfect courtesy, and were kinder than they intended to be to the “professed impenitent heretic.”

His heart, now “at leisure from itself,” was filled with sympathy for his imprisoned brethren and sisters. But, except to Maria Gonsalez, he dared not speak of them, lest the simplest remark or question might give rise to some new suspicion, or supply some link, hitherto missing, in the chain of evidence against them. But those who came to visit him sometimes gave him unasked intelligence about them. He could not, however, rely upon the truth of what reached him in this way. He was told that Losada had retracted; he did not believe it. Equally did he disbelieve a similar story of Don Juan Ponce de Leon, in which, unhappily, there was some truth. The constancy of that gentle, generous-hearted nobleman had yielded under torture and cruel imprisonment, and concessions had been wrung from him that dimmed the brightness of his martyr crown. On the other hand, the waverer, Garçias Ariâs, known as the “White Doctor,” had come forward with a hardihood truly marvellous, and not only confessed his own faith, but mocked and defied the Inquisitors.

Of Fray Constantino, the most contradictory stories were told him. At one time he was assured that the great preacher had not only admitted his own guilt, but also, on the rack, had informed against his brethren. Again he was told, and this time with truth, that the Emperor’s former chaplain and favourite had been spared the horrors of the Question, but that the eagerly desired evidence against him had been obtained by accident. A lady of rank, one of his chief friends, was amongst the prisoners; and the Inquisitors sent an Alguazil to her house to demand possession of her jewels. Her son, without waiting to ascertain the precise object of the officer’s visit, surrendered to him in a panic some books which Fray Constantino had given his mother to conceal. Amongst them was a volume in his own handwriting, containing the most explicit avowal of the principles of the Reformation. On this being shown to the prisoner, he struggled no longer. “You have there a full and candid confession of my belief,” he said. And he was now in one of the dark and loathsome subterranean cells of the Triana.

Amongst those who most frequently visited Carlos was the prior of the Dominican convent. This man seemed to take a peculiar interest in the young heretic’s fate. He was a good specimen of a character oftener talked about than met with in real life,—the genuine fanatic. When he threatened Carlos, as he spared not to do, with the fire that is never quenched, at least he believed with all his heart that he was in danger of it. Carlos soon perceived this, and accepting his honest intention to benefit him, came to regard him with a kind of friendliness. Besides, the prior listened to what he said with more attention than did most of the others, and even in the prison of the Inquisition a man likes to be listened to, especially when his opportunities of speaking are few and brief.

Many weeks passed by, and still Carlos lay on his mat, in weakness and suffering of body, though in calm gladness of spirit. Surgical and medical aid had been afforded him in due course. And it was not the fault of either surgeon or physician that he did not recover. They could stanch wounds and set dislocated joints, but when the springs of life were sapped, how could they renew them? How could they quicken the feeble pulse, or send back life and energy into the broken, exhausted frame? At this time Carlos himself felt certain—even more certain than did his physician—that never again would his footsteps pass the limits of that narrow cell.

Once, indeed, there came to him a brief and fleeting pang of regret. It was in the spring-time; everywhere else so bright and fair, but making little change in those gloomy cells. Maria Gonsalez now sometimes obtained access to him, partly through Benevidio’s increased inattention to all his duties, partly because, any attempt at escape on the part of the captive being obviously out of the question, he was somewhat less jealously watched. And more than once the gaoler’s little daughter stole in timidly beside her nurse, bearing some trifling gift for the sick prisoner. To Carlos these visits came like sunbeams; and in a very short time he succeeded in establishing quite an intimate friendship with the child.

One morning she entered his cell with Maria, carrying a basket, from which she produced, with shy pleasure, a few golden oranges. “Look, señor,” she said, “they are good to eat now, for the blossoms are out.[#] I gathered some to show you;” and filling both her hands with the luscious wealth of the orange flowers, she flung them carelessly down on the mat beside him. In her eyes they were of no value compared with the fruit.

[#] The people of Seville do not think the oranges fit to eat until the new blossoms come out in spring.

With Carlos it was far otherwise. The rich perfume that filled the cell filled his heart also with sweet sad dreams, which lasted long after his kindly visitors had left him. The orange-trees had just been in flower last spring when all God’s free earth and sky were shut out from his sight for ever. Only a year ago! What a long, long year it seemed! And only one year further back he was walking in the orange gardens with Doña Beatriz, in all the delicious intoxication of his first and last dream of youthful love. “Better here than there, better now than then,” he murmured, though the tears gathered in his eyes. “But oh, for one hour of the old free life, one look at orange-trees in flower, or blue skies, or the grassy slopes and cork-trees of Nuera! Or”—and more painfully intense the yearning grew—“one familiar face, belonging to the past, to show me it was not all a dream, as I am sometimes tempted to think it. Thine, Ruy, if it might be.—O Ruy, Ruy!—But, thank God, I have not betrayed thee!”

In the afternoon of that day visitors were announced. Carlos was not surprised to see the stern narrow face and white hair of the Dominican prior. But he was a little surprised to observe that the person who followed him wore the gray cowl of St. Francis. The prior merely bestowed the customary salutation upon him, and then, stepping aside, allowed his companion to approach.

But as soon as Carlos saw his face, he raised himself eagerly, and stretching out both his hands, grasped those of the Franciscan. “Dear Fray Sebastian!” he cried; “my good, kind tutor!”

“My lord the prior has been graciously pleased to allow me to visit your Excellency.”

“It is truly kind of you, my lord. I thank you heartily,” said Carlos, frankly and promptly turning towards the Dominican, who looked at him with somewhat the air of one who is trying to be stern with a child.

“I have ventured to allow you this indulgence,” he said, “in the hope that the counsels of one whom you hold in honour may lead you to repentance.”

Carlos turned once more to Fray Sebastian, whose hand he still held. “It is a great joy to see you,” he said. “Only to-day I had been longing for a familiar face. And you are changed never a whit since you used to teach me my humanities. How have you come hither? Where have you been all these years?”

Poor Fray Sebastian vainly tried to frame an answer to these simple questions. He had come to that prison straight from Munebrãga’s splendid patio, where, amidst the gleam of azulejos and of many-coloured marbles, the scent of rare exotics and the music of rippling fountains, he had partaken of a sumptuous mid-day repast. In this dark foul dungeon there was nothing to please the senses, not even God’s free air and light. Everything on which his eye rested was coarse, painful, loathsome. By the prisoner’s side lay the remains of a meal, in great contrast to his. And the sleeve, fallen back from the hand that held his own, showed deep scars on the wrist. He knew whence they were. Yet the face that was looking in his, with kindling eyes, and a smile on the parted lips, might have been the face of the boy Carlos, when he praised him for a successful task, only for the pain in it, and, far deeper than pain, a look of assured peace that boyhood could scarcely know.

Repressing a choking sensation, he faltered, “Señor Don Carlos, it grieves me to the heart to see you here.”

“Do not grieve for me, dear Fray Sebastian; for I tell you truly, I have never known such happy hours as since I came here. At first, indeed, I suffered; there was storm and darkness. But then”—here for a moment his voice failed, and his flushed cheek and quivering lip betrayed the anguish a too hasty movement cost the broken frame. But, recovering himself quickly, he went on: “Then He arose and rebuked the wind and the sea; and there was a great calm. That calm lasts still. And oftentimes this narrow room seems to me the house of God, the very gate of heaven. Moreover,” he added, with a smile of strange brightness, “there is heaven itself beyond.”

“But, señor and your Excellency, consider the disgrace and sorrow of your noble family—that is, I mean”—here the speaker paused in perplexity, and met the keen eye of the prior, fixed somewhat scornfully, as he thought, upon him. He was quite conscious that the Dominican was thinking him incapable, and incompetent to the task he had so earnestly solicited. He had sedulously prepared himself for this important interview, had gone through it in imagination beforehand, laying up in his memory several convincing and most pertinent exhortations, which could not fail to benefit his old pupil. But these were of no avail now; in fact, they all vanished from his recollection. He had just begun something rather vague and incoherent about Holy Church, when the prior broke in.

“Honoured brother,” he said, addressing with scrupulous politeness the member of a rival fraternity, “the prisoner may be more willing to listen to your pious exhortations, and you may have more freedom in addressing him, if you are left for a brief space alone together. Therefore, though it is scarcely regular, I will visit a prisoner in a neighbouring apartment, and return hither for you in due time.”

Fray Sebastian thanked him, and he withdrew, saying as he did so, “It is not necessary for me to remind my reverend brother that conversation upon worldly matters is strictly forbidden in the Holy House.”

Whether the prior visited the other prisoner or no, it is not for us to inquire; but if he did, his visit was a short one; for it is certain that for some time he paced the gloomy corridor with troubled footsteps. He was thinking of a woman’s face, a fair young face, to which that of Don Carlos Alvarez wore a startling likeness. “Too harsh, needlessly harsh,” he murmured; “for, after all, she was no heretic. But which of us is always in the right? Ave Maria Sanctissima, ora pro me! But if I can, I would fain make some reparation—to him. If ever there was a true and sincere penitent, he is one.”

After a little further delay, he summoned Fray Sebastian by a peremptory knock at the inner door, the outer one of course remaining open. The Franciscan came, his broad, good-humoured face bathed in tears, which he scarcely made an effort to conceal.

The prior glanced at him for a moment, then signed to Herrera, who was waiting in the gallery, to come and make the door fast. They walked on together in silence, until at length Fray Sebastian said, in a trembling voice, “My lord, you are very powerful here; can you do nothing for him?”

“I have done much. At my intercession he had nine months of solitude, in which to recollect himself and ponder his situation, ere he was called on to make answer at all. Judge my amazement when, instead of entering upon his defence, or calling witnesses to his character, he at once confessed all. Judge my greater amazement at his continued obstinacy since. When a man has broken a giant oak in two, he may feel some surprise at being baffled by a sapling.”

“He will not relent,” said Fray Sebastian, hardly restraining his sobs. “He will die.”

“I see one chance to save him,” returned the prior; “but it is a hazardous experiment. The consent of the Supreme Council is necessary, as well as that of my Lord Vice-Inquisitor, and neither may be very easy to obtain.”

“To save his body or his soul?” Fray Sebastian asked anxiously.

“Both, if it succeeds. But I can say no more,” he added rather haughtily; “for my plan is bound up with a secret, of which few living men, save myself, are in possession.”

XXXIV

Fray Sebastian’s Trouble.

  “Now, with fainting frame,
With soul just lingering on the flight begun,
To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one,
I bless thee. Peace be on thy noble head.
Years of bright fame, when I am with the dead!
I bid this prayer survive me, and retain
Its power again to bless thee, and again.
Thou hast been gathered into my dark fate
Too much; too long for my sake desolate
Hath been thine exiled youth; but now take back
From dying hands thy freedom.”

—Hemans

It was late in August. All day long the sky had been molten fire, and the earth brass. Every one had dozed away the sultry noontide hours in the coolest recesses of dwellings made to exclude heat, as ours to exclude cold. But when at last the sun sank in flame beneath the horizon, people began to creep out languidly to woo the refreshment of the evening breeze.

The beautiful gardens of the Triana were still deserted, save by two persons. One of these, a young lad—we beg pardon, a young gentleman—of fifteen or sixteen, sat, or rather reclined, by the river-side, eating slices from an enormous melon, which he cut with a small silver-hilted dagger. A plumed cap, and a gay velvet jerkin lined with satin, had been thrown aside for coolness’ sake, and lay near him on the ground; so that his present dress consisted merely of a mass of the finest white holland, delicately starched and frilled, velvet hosen, long silk stockings, and fashionable square-toed shoes. Curls of scented hair were thrown back from a face beautiful as that of a girl, but bold and insolent in its expression as that of a spoiled and mischievous boy.

The other person was seated in the arbour mentioned once before, with a book in his hand, of which, however, he did not in the course of an hour turn over a single leaf. A look of chronic discontent and dejection had replaced the good-humoured smiles of Fray Sebastian Gomez. Everything was wrong with the poor Franciscan now. Even the delicacies of his patron’s table ceased to please him; and he, in his turn, was fast ceasing to please his patron. How could it be otherwise, when he had lost not only his happy art of indirect ingenious flattery, but his power to be commonly agreeable or amusing? No more poems—not so much as the briefest sonnet—on the suppression of heresy were to be had from him; and he was fast becoming incapable of turning a jest or telling a story.

It is said that idiots often manifest peculiar pain and terror at the sound of music, because it awakens within them faint stirrings of that higher life from which God’s mysterious dispensation has shut them out. And it is true that the first stirrings of higher life usually come to all of us with pain and terror. Moreover, if we do not crush them out, but cherish and foster them, they are very apt to take away the brightness and pleasantness of the old lower life altogether, and to make it seem worthless and distasteful.

A new and higher life had begun for Fray Sebastian. It was not his conscience that was quickened, only his heart. Hitherto he had chiefly cared for himself. He was a good-natured man, in the ordinary acceptation of the term; yet no sympathy for others had ever spoiled his appetite or hindered his digestion. But for the past three months he had been feeling as he had not felt since he clung weeping to the mother who left him in the parlour of the Franciscan convent—a child of eight years old. The patient suffering face of the young prisoner in the Triana had laid upon him a spell that he could not break.

To say that he would have done anything in his power to save Don Carlos, is to say little. Willingly would he have lived for a month on black bread and brackish water, if that could have even mitigated his fate. But the very intensity of his desire to help him was fast making him incapable of rendering him the smallest service. Munebrãga’s flatterer and favourite might possibly, by dint of the utmost self-possession and the most adroit management, have accomplished some little good. But Fray Sebastian was now consciously forfeiting even the miserable fragment of power that had once been his. He thought himself like the salt that had lost its savour, and was fit neither for the land nor yet for the dunghill.

Absorbed in his mournful reflections, he continued unconscious of the presence of such an important personage as Don Alonzo de Munebrãga, the Lord Vice-Inquisitor’s favourite page. At length, however, he was made aware of the fact by a loud angry shout, “Off with you, varlets, scum of the people! How dare you put your accursed fishing-smack to shore in my lord’s garden, and under his very eyes?”

Fray Sebastian looked up, and saw no fishing-boat, but a decent covered barge, from which, in spite of the page’s remonstrance, two persons were landing: an elderly female clad in deep mourning, and her attendant, apparently a tradesman’s apprentice, or serving-man.

Fray Sebastian knew well how many distracted petitioners daily sought access to Munebrãga, to plead (alas, how vainly!) for the lives of parents, husbands, sons, or daughters. This was doubtless one of them. He heard her plead, “For the love of Heaven, dear young gentleman, hinder me not. Have you a mother? My only son lies—”

“Out upon thee, woman!” interrupted the page; “and the foul fiend take thee and thy only son together.”

“Hush, Don Alonzo!” Fray Sebastian interposed, coming forward towards the spot; and perhaps for the first time in his life there was something like dignity in his tone and manner. “You must be aware, señora,” he said, turning to the woman, “that the right of using this landing-place is restricted to my lord’s household. You will be admitted at the gate of the Triana, if you present yourself at a proper hour.”

“Alas! good father, once and again have I sought admission to my lord’s presence. I am the unhappy mother of Luis D’Abrego, he who used to paint and illuminate the church missals so beautifully. More than a year agone they tore him from me, and carried him away to yonder tower, and since then, so help me the good God, never a word of him have I heard. Whether he is living or dead, this day I know not.”

“Oh, a Lutheran dog! Serve him right,” cried the page. “I hope they have put him on the pulley.”

Fray Sebastian turned suddenly, and dealt the lad a stinging blow on the side of his face. To the latest hour of his life this act of passion remained incomprehensible to himself. He could only ascribe it to the direct agency of the evil one. “I was tempted by the Devil,” he would say with a sigh. “Vade retro me, Satana.”

Crimson to the roots of his perfumed hair, the boy sought his dagger. “Vile caitiff! beggarly trencher-scraping Franciscan!” he cried, “you shall repent of this.”

But apparently changing his mind the next moment, he allowed the dagger to drop from his hand, and snatching up his jerkin, ran at full speed towards the house.

Fray Sebastian crossed himself, and gazed after him bewildered; his unwonted passion dying as suddenly as it had flamed up, and giving place to fear.

Meanwhile the mother of Abrego, to whom it did not occur that the buffet bestowed on the page could have any serious consequences, resumed her pleadings. “Your reverence seems to have a heart that can feel for the unhappy,” she said. “For Heaven’s sake refuse not the prayer of the most unhappy woman in the world. Only let me see his lordship—let me throw myself at his feet and tell him the whole truth. My poor lad had nothing at all to do with the Lutherans; he was a good, true Christian, and an old one, like all his family.”

“Nay, nay, my good woman; I fear I can do nothing to help you. And I entreat of you to leave this place, else some of my lord’s household are sure to come and compel you. Ay, there they are.”

It was true enough. Don Alonzo, as he ran through the porch, shouted to the numerous idle attendants who were lounging about, and some of them immediately rushed out into the garden.

In justice to Fray Sebastian, it must be recorded, that before he consulted for his personal safety, he led the poor woman back to the barge, and saw her depart in it. Then he made good his own retreat, going straight to the lodging of Don Juan Alvarez.

He found Juan lying asleep on a settle. The day was hot; he had nothing to do; and, moreover, the fiery energy of his southern blood was dashed by the southern taint of occasional torpor. Starting up suddenly, and seeing Fray Sebastian standing before him with a look of terror, he asked in alarm, “Any tidings, Fray? Speak—tell me quickly.”

“None, Señor Don Juan. But I must leave this place at once.” And the friar briefly narrated the scene that had just taken place, adding mournfully, “Ay de mi! I cannot tell what came over me—me, the mildest-tempered man in all the Spains!”

“And what of all that?” asked Juan rather contemptuously. “I see nothing to regret, save that you did not give the insolent lad what he deserved, a sound beating.”

“But, Señor Don Juan, you don’t understand,” gasped the poor friar. “I must fly immediately. If I stay here over to-night I shall find myself before the morning—there.” And with a significant gesture he pointed to the grim fortress that loomed above them.

“Nonsense. They cannot suspect a man of heresy, even de levi,[#] for boxing the ear of an impudent serving-lad.”

[#] Lightly.

“Ay, and can they not, your worship? Do you not know that the gardener of the Triana has lain for many a weary month in one of those dismal cells; and all for the grave offence of snatching a reed out of the hand of one of my lord’s lackeys so roughly as to make it bleed?”[#]

[#] A fact.

“Truly! Now are things come to a strange pass in our free and royal land of Spain! A beggarly upstart, such as this Munebrãga, who could not, to save himself from the rack, tell you the name of his own great-grandfather, drags the sons and brothers—ay, and God help us! the wives and daughters—of our knights and nobles to the dungeon and the stake before our eyes. And it is not enough for him to set his own heel on our necks. His minions—his very grooms and pages—must lord it over us, and woe to him who dares to chastise their insolence. Nathless, I would feel it a comfort to make every bone in that urchin’s body ache soundly. I have a mind—but this is folly. I believe you are right, Fray. You should go.”

“Moreover,” said the friar mournfully, “I am doing no good here.”

“No one can do good now,” returned Juan, in a tone of deep dejection. “And to-day the last blow has fallen. The poor woman who showed him kindness, and sometimes told us how he fared, is herself a prisoner.”

“What! she has been discovered?”

“Even so: and with those fiends mercy is the greatest of all crimes. The child met me to-day (whether by accident or design, I know not), and told me, weeping bitterly.”

“God help her!”

“Some would gladly endure her punishment if they might commit her crime,” said Don Juan. There was a pause; then he resumed, “I had been about to ask you to apply once more to the prior.”

Fray Sebastian shook his head. “That were of no use,” he said; “for it is certain that my lord the Vice-Inquisitor and the prior have had a misunderstanding about the matter. And the prior, so far from obtaining permission to deal with him as he desired, is not even allowed to see him now.”

“And yourself?—whither do you mean to go?” asked Juan, rather abruptly.

“In sooth, I know not, señor. I have had no time to think. But go I must.”

“I will tell you what to do. Go to Nuera. There for the present you will be safe. And if any man inquire your business, you have a fair and ready answer. I send you to look after my affairs. Stay; I will write by you to Dolores. Poor, true-hearted Dolores!” Don Juan seemed to fall into a reverie, so long did he sit motionless, his face shaded by his hand.

His mournful air, his unwonted listlessness, his attenuated frame—all struck Fray Sebastian painfully. After musing a while in silence, he said at last, very suddenly, “Señor Don Juan!”

Juan looked up.

“Have you ever thought since on the message he sent you by me?”

Don Juan looked as though that question were worse than needless. Was not every word of his brother’s message burned into his heart? This it was: “My Ruy, thou hast done all for me that the best of brothers could. Leave me now to God, unto whom I am going quickly, and in peace. Quit the country as soon as thou canst; and God’s best blessings surround thy path and guard thee evermore.”

One fact Carlos had most earnestly entreated Fray Sebastian to withhold from his brother. Juan must never know that he had endured the horrors of the Question. The monk would have promised almost anything that could bring a glow of pleasure to that pale, patient face. And he had kept his promise, though at the expense of a few falsehoods, that did not greatly embarrass his conscience. He had conveyed the impression to Don Juan that it was merely from the effects of his long and cruel imprisonment that his brother was sinking into the only refuge that remained to him—a quiet grave.

After a pause, he resumed, looking earnestly at Juan—“He wished you to go.”

“Do you not know that next month they say there will be—an Auto?”

“Yes; but it is not likely—”

They gazed at each other in silence, neither saying what was not likely.

“Any horror is possible,” said Juan at last. “But no more of this. Until after the Auto, with its chances of some termination to this dreadful suspense, I stir not from Seville. Now, we must think for you. I know where to find a boat, the owner of which will take you some miles on your way up the river to-night. Then you can hire a horse.”

Fray Sebastian groaned. Neither the journey itself, its cause, nor its manner were anything but disagreeable to the poor friar. But there was no help for him. Juan gave him some further directions about his way; then set food and wine before him.

“Eat and drink,” he said. “Meanwhile I will secure the boat. When I return, I can write to Dolores.”

All was done as he planned; and ere the morning broke, Fray Sebastian was far on his way to Nuera, with the letter to Dolores stitched into the lining of his doublet.

XXXV

The Eve of the Auto.

“It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth
He sitteth alone and keepeth silence, because he hath borne it upon him.
He putteth his mouth in the dust, if so be there may be
  hope.”—Lamentations iii, 27-29

On the 21st of September 1559, all Seville wore a festive appearance. The shops were closed, and the streets were filled with idle loiterers in their gay holiday apparel. For it was the eve of the great Auto, and the preliminary ceremonies were going forward amidst the admiration of gazing thousands. Two stately scaffolds, in the form of an amphitheatre, had been erected in the great square of the city, then called the Square of St. Francis; and thither, when the work was completed, flags and crosses were borne in solemn procession, with music and singing.

But a still more significant ceremonial was enacted in another place. Outside the walls, on the Prado San Sebastian, stood the ghastly Quemadero—the great altar upon which, for generations, men had offered human sacrifices to the God of peace and love. Thither came long files of barefooted friars, carrying bushes and faggots, which they laid in order on the place of death, while, in sweet yet solemn tones, they chanted the “Miserere” and “De Profundis.”

Very close together on those festive days were “strong light and deep shadow.” But our way leads us, for the present, into the light. Turning away from the Square of St. Francis, and the Prado San Sebastian, we enter a cool upper room in the stately mansion of Don Garçia Ramirez. There, in the midst of gold and gems, and of silk and lace, Doña Inez is standing, busily engaged in the task of selecting the fairest treasures of her wardrobe to grace the grand festival of the following day. Doña Beatriz de Lavella, and the young waiting-woman who had been employed in the vain though generous effort to save Don Carlos, are both aiding her in the choice.

“Please your ladyship,” said the girl, “I should recommend rose colour for the basquina. Then, with those beautiful pearls, my lord’s late gift, my lady will be as fine as a duchess; of whom, I hear, many will be there.—But what will Señora Doña Beatriz please to wear?”

“I do not intend to go, Juanita,” said Doña Beatriz, with a little embarrassment.

“Not intend to go!” cried the girl, crossing herself in surprise. “Not go to see the grandest sight there has been in Seville for many a year! Worth a hundred bull-feasts! Ay de mi! what a pity!”

“Juanita,” interposed her mistress, “I think I hear the señorita’s voice in the garden. It is far too hot for her to be out of doors. Oblige me by bringing her in at once.”

As soon as the attendant was gone, Doña Inez turned to her cousin. “It is really most unreasonable of Don Juan,” she said, “to keep you shut up here, whilst all Seville is making holiday.”

“I am glad—I have no heart to go forth,” said Doña Beatriz, with a quivering lip.

“Nor have I too much, for that matter. My poor brother is so weak and ill to-day, it grieves me to the heart. Moreover, he is still so thoughtless about his poor soul. That is the worst of all. I never cease praying Our Lady to bring him to a better mind. If he would only consent to see a priest; but he was ever obstinate. And if I urge the point too strongly, he will think I suppose him dying.”

“I thought his health had improved since you had him brought over here.”

“Certainly he is happier here than he was in his father’s house. But of late he seems to me to be sinking, and that quickly. And now, the Auto—”

“What of that?” asked Doña Beatriz, with a quick look, half suspicious and half frightened.

Doña Inez closed the door carefully, and drew nearer to her cousin. “They say she will be amongst the relaxed,”[#] she whispered.

[#] Those delivered over to the secular arm—that is, to death.

“Does he know it?” asked Beatriz.

“I fear he suspects something; and what to tell him, or not to tell him, I know not—Our Lady help me! Ay de mi! ’Tis a horrible business from beginning to end. And the last thing—the arrest of the sister, Doña Juana! A duke’s daughter—a noble’s bride. But—best be silent.

‘Con el re e la Inquisition,
Chiton! Chiton!’”[#]

[#]| “With the King or the Inquisition,
Hush! Hush!”

—A Spanish proverb.

Thus, only in a few hurried words, spoken with ‘bated breath, did Doña Inez venture to allude to the darkest and saddest of the horrible tragedies in that time of horrors. Nor shall we do more.

“Still, you know, amiga mia,” she continued, “one must do like one’s neighbours. It would be so ridiculous to look gloomy on a festival day. Besides, every one would talk.”

“That is why I say I am glad Don Juan made it his prayer to me that I would not go. For not to look sorrowful, when thy father, Don Manuel, and my aunt, Doña Katarina, are both doing their utmost to drive me out of my senses, would be past my power.”

“Have they been urging the suit of Señor Luis upon thee again? My poor Beatriz, I am truly sorrow for thee,” said Doña Inez, with genuine sympathy.

“Urging it again!” Beatriz repeated with flashing eyes. “Nay; but they have never ceased to urge it. And they spare not to say such wicked, cruel words. They tell me Don Juan is dishonoured by his brother’s crime. Dishonoured, forsooth! Think of dishonour touching him! After the day of St. Quentin, the Duke of Savoy was not of that mind, nor our Catholic King himself. And they have the audacity to say that I can easily get absolved of my troth to him. Absolved of a solemn promise made in the sight of God and of Our Lady, and all the holy Saints! If that be not heresy, as bad as—”

“Hush!” interrupted Doña Inez. “These are dangerous subjects. Moreover, I hear some one knocking at the door.”

It proved to be a page bearing a message.

“If it please Doña Beatriz de Lavella, Don Juan Alvarez de Santillanos y Meñaya kisses the señora’s feet, and most humbly desires the favour of an audience.”

“I go,” said Beatriz.

“Request Señor Don Juan to have the goodness to untire himself a little, and bring his Excellency fruit and wine,” added Doña Inez. “My cousin,” she said, turning to Beatriz as soon as the page left the room, “do you not know your cheeks are all aflame? Don Juan will think we have quarrelled. Rest you here a minute, and let me bathe them for you with this water of orange-flowers.”

Beatriz submitted, though reluctantly, to her cousin’s good offices. While she performed them she whispered, “And be not so downcast, amiga mia. There is a remedy for most troubles. And as for yours, I see not why Don Juan himself should not save you out of them once for all.” She added, in a whisper, two or three words that more than undid all the benefit which the cheeks of Beatriz might otherwise have derived from the application of the fragrant water.

“No use,” was the agitated reply. “Even were it possible, they would not permit it.”

“You can come to visit me. Then trust me to manage the rest. The truth is, amiga mia,” Doña Inez continued hurriedly, as she smoothed her cousin’s dark glossy hair, “what between sickness, and quarrelling, and the Faith, and heresy, and prisons, there is so much trouble in the world that no one can help, it seems a pity not to help all one can. So you may tell Don Juan that if Doña Inez can do him a good turn she will not be found wanting. There, I despair of your cheeks. Yet I must allow that their crimson becomes you well. But you would rather hear that from Don Juan’s lips than from mine. Go to him, my cousin.” And with a parting kiss Beatriz was dismissed.

But if she expected any flattery that day from the lips of Don Juan, she was disappointed. His heart was far too sorrowful. He had merely come to tell his betrothed what he intended to do on the morrow—that dreadful morrow! “I have secured a station,” he said, “from whence I can watch the whole procession, as it issues from the gate of the Triana. If he is there, I shall dare everything for a last look and word. And a desperate man is seldom baffled. If even his dust is there, I shall stand beside it till all is over. If not—” Here he broke off, leaving his sentence unfinished, as if in that case it did not matter what he did.

Just then Doña Inez entered. After customary salutations, she said, “I have a request to make of you, my cousin, on the part of my brother, Don Gonsalvo. He desires to see you for a few moments.”

“Señora my cousin, I am very much at your service, and at his.”

Juan was accordingly conducted to the upper room where Gonsalvo lay. And at the special request of the sick man, they were left alone together.

He stretched out a wasted hand to his cousin, who took it in silence, but with a look of compassion. For it needed only a glance at his face to show that death was there.

“I should be glad to think you forgave me,” he said.

“I do forgive you,” Juan answered. “You intended no evil.”

“Will you, then, do me a great kindness? It is the last I shall ask. Tell me the names of any of the—the victims that have come to your knowledge.”

“It is only through rumour one can hear these things. Not yet have I succeeded in discovering whether the name dearest to me is amongst them.”

“Tell me—has rumour named in your hearing—Doña Maria de Xeres y Bohorques?”

Juan was still ignorant of the secret which Doña Inez had but recently confided to his betrothed. He therefore answered, without hesitation, though in a low, sad tone, “Yes; they say she is to die to-morrow.”

Don Gonsalvo flung his hand across his face, and there was a great silence.

Which the awed and wondering Juan broke at last. Guessing at the truth, he said, “It may be I have done wrong to tell you.”

“No; you have done right. I knew it ere you told me. It is well—for her.”

“A brave word, bravely spoken.”

“Nigh upon eighteen months—long slow months of grief and pain. All ended now. To-morrow night she will see the glory of God.”

There was another long pause. At last Juan said,—

“Perhaps, if you could, you would gladly share her fate?”

Gonsalvo half raised himself, and a flush overspread the wan face that already wore the ashy hue of approaching death. “Share that fate!” he cried, with an eagerness contrasting strangely with his former slow and measured utterance. “Change with them? Ask the beggar, who sits all day at the King’s gate, waiting for his dole of crumbs, would he gladly change with the King’s children, when he sees the golden gate flung open before them, and watches them pass in robed and crowned, to the presence-chamber of the King himself.”

“Your faith is greater than mine,” said Juan in surprise.

“In one way, yes,” replied Gonsalvo, sinking back, and resuming his low, quiet tone. “For the beggar dares to hope that the King has looked with pity even on him.”

“You do well to hope in the mercy of God.”

“Cousin, do you know what my life has been?”

“I think I do.”

“I am past disguise now. Standing on the brink of the grave, I dare speak the truth, though it be to my own shame. There was no evil, no sin—stay, I will sum up all in one word. One pure, blameless life—a man’s life, too—I have watched from day to day, from childhood to manhood. All that your brother Don Carlos was, I was not; all he was not, I was.”

“Yet you once thought that life incomplete, unmanly,” said Juan, remembering the taunts that in past days had so often aroused his wrath.

“I was a fool. It is just retribution that I—I who called him coward—should see him march in there triumphant, with the palm of victory in his hand. But let me end; for I think it is the last time I shall speak of myself in any human ear. I sowed to the flesh, and of the flesh I have reaped—corruption. It is an awful word, Don Juan. All the life in me turned to death; all the good in me (what God meant for good, such as force, fire, passion) turned to evil. What availed it me that I loved a star in heaven—a bright, lonely, distant star—while I was earthy, of the earth? Because I could not (and thank God for that!) pluck down my star from the sky and hold it in my hand, even that love became corruption too. I fulfilled my course, the earthly grew sensual, the sensual grew devilish. And then God smote me, though not then for the first time. The stroke of his hand was heavy. My heart was crushed, my frame left powerless.” He paused for a while, then slowly resumed. “The stroke of his hand, your brother’s words, your brother’s book—by these he taught me. There is deliverance even from the bondage of corruption, through him who came to call not the righteous, but sinners. One day—and that soon—I, even I, shall kneel at his feet, and thank him for saving the lost. And then I shall see my star, shining far above me in his glorious heaven, and be content and glad.”

“God has been very gracious to you, my cousin,” said Juan in a tone of emotion. “And what he has cleansed I dare not call common. Were my brother here to-day, I think he would stretch out to you the right hand, not of forgiveness, but of fellowship. I have told you how he longed for your soul.”

“God can fulfil more desires of his than that, Don Juan, and I doubt not he will. What know we of his dealings? we who all these dreary months have been mourning for and pitying his prisoners, to-morrow to be his crowned and sainted martyrs? It were a small thing with him to flood the dungeon’s gloom with light, and give—even here, even now—all their hearts long for to those who suffer for him.”

Juan was silent. Truly the last was first, and the first last now. Gonsalvo had reached some truths which were still far beyond his ken. He did not know how their seed had been sown in his heart by his own brother’s hand. At length he answered, in a low and faltering voice, “There is much in what you say. Fray Sebastian told me—”

“Ay,” cried Gonsalvo eagerly, “what did Fray Sebastian tell you of him?”

“That he found him in perfect peace, though ill and weak in body. It is my hope that God himself has delivered him ere now out of their cruel hands. And I ought to tell you that he spoke of all his relatives with affection, and made special inquiry after your health.”

Gonsalvo said quietly, “It is likely I shall see him before you.”

Juan sighed. “To-morrow will reveal something,” he said.

“Many things, perhaps,” Gonsalvo returned. “Well—Doña Beatriz waits you now. There is no poison in that wine, though it be of an earthly vintage; and God himself puts the cup in your hand; so take it, and be comforted. Yet stay, have you patience for one word more?”

“For a thousand, if you will, my cousin.”

“I know that in heart you share his—our faith.”

Juan shrank a little from his gaze.

“Of course,” he replied, “I have been obliged to conceal my opinions; and, indeed, of late all things have seemed to grow dim and uncertain with me. Sometimes, in my heart of hearts, I cannot tell what truth is.”

“‘He came not to call the righteous, but sinners,’” said Gonsalvo. “And the sinner who has heard his call must believe, let others doubt as they may. Thank God, the sinner may not only believe, but love. Yes; in that the beggar at the gate may take his stand beside the king’s children unreproved. Even I dare to say, ‘Lord, thou knowest all things; thou knowest that I love thee.’ Only to them it is given to prove it; while I—ay, there was the bitter thought. Long it haunted me. At last I prayed that if indeed he deigned to accept me, all sinful as I was, he would give me for a sign something to do, to suffer, or to give up, whereby I might prove my love.”

“And did he hear you?”

“Yes. He showed me one thing harder to give up than life; one thing harder to do than to brave the torture and the death of fire.”

“What is that?”

Once more Gonsalvo veiled his face. Then he murmured—“Harder to give up—vengeance, hatred; harder to do—to pray for their murderers.”

“I could never do it,” said Juan, starting.

“And if at last—at last—I can,—I, whose anger was fierce, and whose wrath was cruel, even unto death,—is not that His own work in me?”

Juan half turned away, and did not answer immediately. In his heart many thoughts were struggling. Far, indeed, was he from praying for his brother’s murderers; almost as far from wishing to do it. Rather would he invoke God’s vengeance upon them. Had Gonsalvo, in the depths of his misery, remorse, and penitence, actually found something which Don Juan Alvarez still lacked? He said at last, with a humility new and strange to him,—

“My cousin, you are nearer heaven than I.”

“As to time—yes,” said Gonsalvo, with a faint smile. “Now farewell, cousin; and thank you.”

“Can I do nothing more for you?”

“Yes; tell my sister that I know all. Now, God bless you, and deliver you from the evils that beset your path, and bring you and yours to some land where you may worship him in peace and safety.”

And so the cousins parted, never to meet again upon earth.